Crossing Borders
by Sppornk
Summary: Four long years, seven trying months, and three excruciating days. This was the amount of time Bior and his fleet of exiles traveled through empty space to escape their war-torn worlds. Accompanying them, vast races of the Covenant journey in hopes of finally finding a place to call home. But what they find threatens to put into the motion the inevitable conflict that divides all.
1. Chapter 1

Crossing Borders

Majestic jade green and sparkling deep blue shine brightly against the sun as the planet slowly revolves on its axis. The light brown masses of continent blanketing the oceans remind Bior of the numerous tattoos covering the coarse beige skin of the Elites on board.

"Beautiful ain't she?"

Bior looks back at the San'Shyuum awkwardly limping towards him. Pardons, they called her, leans on her walking stick as she slowly makes her way to the metal handrails.

"For a long time my kind had conquered galaxies and subjugated numerous species," she solemnly laments before turning to Bior and smiling. "Makes you wonder the irony when such a simple and small planet on the fridges of empty space signifies the very survival for all of us."

Bior grimly nods his head. For four years, seven months, and three days, they have traveled across known and unknown space for a sanctuary from the turmoil created when the Covenant collapsed.

Three fleets with a handful of covenant battle cruisers, human frigates, and various smaller warships protect the sizable armada of transports carriers, each carrying thousands, if not tens of thousands, of refugees ranging from the prolific Grunts to the near extinct Prophets.

Bior rests his palms on the cool steel bars and lowers his head. They have endured long years, struggled against outrageous odds, even suffered countless losses and sacrifices, but finally their efforts were not in vain.

Some of them were here to escape the constant upheaval between the Insurgency and UNSC, while others were here because of the power struggle happening within the failing Covenant. Still, even others were here for various reasons so infinite Bior couldn't even begin to bother to understand them all.

All that mattered now was the planet, with scans indicating it habitable for life, in front of them. Like an oasis in the middle of a desert, or like the island a ship adrift has set upon, the planet beamed out of the abyssal black as if it were a lighthouse and the fleet its patrons.

"What do you think we'll find?" Bior asks Pardons. His voice resonated a calm aura, almost befitting his confident stature. However, deep down innumerable possibilities and worries plague at his brain.

 _What if the scans are wrong? What if the fauna and food are inedible? What if there is a disease that spreads into an epidemic?_

Bior feels a soft touch on his arm. Looking at the source, he sees Pardons looking up at him with the same expressions in her eyes. Four years, seven months, and three days together have taught them many things about the other. There was no way Bior could hide his thoughts from the Prophet, and likewise there was no way Pardons could evade Bior's sharp intuition.

"We've made it this far," she calmly states, "Staying away from the bridge to ponder meaningless questions bear no fruit in our mission."

Bior silently nods. He could always count on her to break him out of the dangerous trance of self-doubt and loathing.

They make their way to the bridge of the ship. Guards at attention smartly salute them as the heavy metal doors common, but these specific ones outdated, open at a leisurely pace.

Bior hurriedly walks past the entrance before the hatch was fully opened. Not waiting for Pardon he automatically begins barking out orders. As San'Shyuum's physics did not mirror human flexibility, Pardon had to wait for the doors to be fully extended. No matter though, to her it was not something to fuss about. Bior has a job to do and given the circumstances and history, trivial gestures and customs can mean the difference between tragedy and fortune.

"You're sure about this?"

Bior reaches the helm and examines the holographic model of the planet with red blotches pinpointing certain regions.

"You're absolutely positive?" He gravely asks the survey technician again.

"I ran the checks three times already," the technician responds. Bior notes the sweat trickling down the man's forehead. "I don't want to believe it either but our systems brought us this far. Can't be faulty now."

Bior looks through the vast windows at the planet. Metal screens were not deployed as there was no need, but with this new report all ships in the fleet might have to become battle active once again.

Bior turns to Pardon, who had just entered.

"I'll provide a shuttle for you to return to the Aspiration," he grimly tells his companion.

"Is something the matter?" Pardon asks in alarm, "You look like you've just seen death."

"We've all lived in the abyss," Bior quietly mumbles. He could feel blood drain from his face as more and more land on the continent is covered with red. "But nothing is more demoralizing than seeing false sanctuary."

Bior beckons the confused Pardon over to him and hands her a report of the dilemma. Pardon lets out a small gasp.

"You can feel the optimism being flushed down the gutter."

In the report, a space shot of boundless mountain-like buildings across the world protrude high above the surrounding terrains. Smaller looking buildings and lairs litter countlessly, as if they were goose bumps, near the vicinity of these massive structures.

"Scans show that they are alive and active too," Bior continues, "these organisms are apparently prolific and worse, are acting collectively. Almost as if they were sentient."

"Like a colony," Pardon muses. To Bior's surprise, he could sense a hint of curiosity in Pardon's reaction.

"As it is already, the fleet is running on fumes," Bior states with seriousness, "There isn't enough resources for us to search for another habitable planet."

Pardon somberly nods her head in agreement.

"Than I'll prepare my forces for deployment," Pardon begins.

"No need," Bior politely declines, "Scouting forces are already on the ground. Until we know exactly what we're going against the less boots we have on the ground the better."

"Afraid it'll be more than just a purging operation?"

Bior stares intensively at the projected hologram. The upgrades they made while in empty space seem to have paid off. Bior could make out the tiniest details on what he guesses was the organism's main, or "heart" building. Ridges and talons measuring kilometers embed the tissues of the structure, and the entire summit seems to fluctuate in and out almost as if it was _alive_.

No, Bior thinks to himself, it _is_ alive. The long time out in the unknown has taught Bior to trust his instinct when knowledge, or lack of it, in this case carries an air of suspicion.

"Hope," Bior calls to his ship's AI. Immediately the silhouette of a blue-grey figure flickers briefly before solidifying into a holographic woman.

"You called, your Autocracy?" the AI monotonously responds.

"Put the fleet on call."

"You're live."

Bior positions himself as the rest of the crew and Pardon wordlessly but attentively focus their attention on him. Standing upright with his hands resting comfortably behind his back, anybody would've easily guessed he was the authority figure.

His confident stature was no feint either. Bior had learned to feel comfortable in his position even before the fleet started its journey.

"This is Autocracy Bior Magistrate of the Thread of Destiny," Bior addresses the entire fleet, both alien and human. "After four years, seven months, and three days we have finally reached our destination. A lone planet orbiting an orange sun at the exit of unforgiving empty space which we are all too familiar with."

Bior takes a pause to let the words reach and sink in to each member of the fleet. After all, this will be the first time many of them will have seen a "safe" planet in years, some even for the first time.

"Our mission from now on will be an even harder one," Bior continues into the virtual microphone, "an inhospitable force lies between us and survival. This by itself is no exaggeration. To ensure not only the continuation of our lives, but also the future of our generations to come we must methodically and willingly eradicate anything that stands in our way. Your companions depend on you, your families depend on you, the fleet depends on you, and the very essence of the mission rests on each and one of your shoulders to do to the very best and beyond your abilities."

Broadswords and Pelicans fly in formation at the planet toward specific points marked out just minute's prior. These spots were hastily drawn, and decided only on the foundation that there was less buildings and organism present. Usually protocol dictated that careful analysis and examination be made before such a substantial deployment of resources was conducted. However, today Bior trusts his instinct and his instinct tells him that the longer the fleet loitered aimlessly in such a vulnerable state, the worse the catastrophe he was sure to come was going to be.

Bior looks around the bridge and studies the faces of all the comrades that laboriously toiled with him to get this far. Each person carried a different expression with them, as Bior examines, he recognizes those of pessimism, those of confidence, those of fear, anxiety, and cheerfulness, and those that remained expressionless and hid their inner feelings with professional efficiency.

"Good luck."

Hope logs the ship out of communications right after Bior mutters those last two words.

Bior helps Pardon onto the upper deck of the bridge. The ship had a special airlock for fast travel between representatives of the Covenant and Human governments; it had been constructed out of necessities for fast in-persons communication.

Bior turns to Pardon before she departs on the Phantom.

"Have you're Unngoys prepare for orbital drop," he instructs her as she painfully lifts her leg onto the lowered ramp.

Usually it was not Bior's place to issue a direct order on Covenant forces, much less to their leader. However, he had been granted special allotment of seniority over the _entire_ fleet since last year, when a calamity claimed the lives of everybody aboard twelve noncombatant starships.

"Just a moment," Pardon replies as she fiddles with a holographic tablet. "Done. I also issued the CCS class battle cruiser Golden Ambition to provide ground support for your troops."

"That won't be necessary-"

"I think it is."

Bior doesn't argue with her. On the contrary, he was grateful for his friend of saving him the potential headache when she offered one of her own to him. She knew it too.

"Thank you," Bior bows to Pardon as the vent closes.

After briefly waving his goodbye he turns and addresses Hope again.

"Thread of Destiny to all ships," he announces. Hope, already guessing his action had automatically connected him to the armada again. "Battle stations. The light is green."

Another pause. This time, it was because of Bior's ambivalence as he resolves himself to utter the last three words he had waited so long to articulate.

"Let's go home."


	2. Chapter 2

Reconnaissance

Ferron peers through his binoculars in disbelief. The grotesque yet fascinating organisms on this planet intrigued him as he observes the horde of canine sized creatures patrolling around their perimeter.

Ferron slowly inches up to the edges of what he guesses was the boundary for these creatures. Deep violet slime blanketed the entire valley as Ferron, along with his partner Cora, crawl through the volatile mire to get a good glimpse of the wildlife they were tasked to eradicate.

"Ferron to Thread of Destiny," Ferron whispers into his radio, "broadcasting feed to you."

Ferron signals to Cora to activate the cameras in their helmets. They carefully sneak past the numerous menacing looking creatures as they begin tagging targets of opportunity.

"They almost seem," Cora notes with nervous deliberation, "docile."

Ferron nods at his partner's comment. She wasn't wrong. The creatures sported razor sharp talons and teeth. Their exoskeleton like appearance were jagged and muscular. It was, in short, characteristics of an apex predator.

"Command tells us they found even more frightening beasts on this continent," Cora comments.

Ferron shivers at the thought. It was a condolence at least that the wildlife didn't seem aware of what was going on. The images of his flesh being torn apart was enough to break Ferron out into a nasty cold sweat.

"We're done tagging" Cora notifies Ferron.

Ferron nods before raising the fleet.

"Ferron to Command," he begins, "Reconnaissance mission completed. Moving to next stage of operation."

Ferron motions to his partner to follow him back up the treacherous slopes to their extraction point. The pair had been dropped off to an hour prior and every second of it drew more unease to Ferron's conscious. He didn't like the way this world "breathed". It felt wrong, unnatural, as if someone or _something_ was tampering with the natural order of things.

"Ferron," Cora suddenly yells out, "watch out!"

A burning sensation floods throughout Ferron's body as his vision suddenly disappears from the excruciating pain that suddenly throbbed from his spine.

Ferron stares in disbelief as multitude of thorn like projectile protrude from his stomach. Looking down in horror at the crimson blood flowing freely from his open wounds, Ferron could scarcely make out the terrifying roars in the distance.

"Ferron," Cora cries out.

Ferron looks up in time to see the ground under Cora erupt open and swallow his partner. Barbs, the size of upturned Warthogs punctures Cora as the momentum tosses her around as if she was a doll. Ferron stares in sheer agony. It was like a knife to a stick of butter.

Enraged, Ferron turn around. The muscles in his body scream in protest as Ferron's vision flickers between blurs and sheer darkness.

The picturesque, almost dream like surrounding a moment ago disappeared as creatures of all kind crouch savagely before him. Their snarling fangs, hissing throats, and trembling brawns doesn't faze Ferron as he unslings his DMR. He was already dead and he knew it.

"Reconnaissance Team Ferron to Command," Ferron weakly mutters into his headset. The muffled bang of his DMR as he unloads his magazine into the frenzy horde seem to grow dimmer and dimmer as he eyelids grow heavier and heavier. "Requesting orbital bombardment on my position. Phase two of operation incomplete. Recommend purging action immediately-"

Bior listens quietly as a torrent of broadcasts swarm the combat screen in front of him. He had just heard the last transmission from his friend and had assumed the worst had happened.

Bowing his head, Bior silently grieves for Ferron. He would award a substantial stipend to Ferron's family when this was all over. For now, his friend's report, along with the many other currently flooding his message board confirmed his worst fear. The simultaneous action from the indigenous population was too much of a coincidence to all be an independent action. Something was controlling the swarm.

"Send a message to Pardon," Bior orders, "I want all noncombatant ships on standby ready for slip space jump."

"Your Autocracy?" Hope asks, alarmed.

"Do it," Bior firmly says, "I'm not taking any chances. Begin orbital bombardment on all designated targets."

"Yes, your Autocracy."

Bior surveys the world. They were close enough to see the various cloud cover spiraling together to form typhoons. He could make out the ridge lines of the planet's highest peaks, the blue of certain large lakes, and the plethora of fuzzy tree line untouched by the purple epidemic.

Golden and sapphire tracers race through the empty space as the rounds soar to the planet's surface.

Bior watches as little puffs of earth sprout from where each caliber landed. He could only imagine the hell the ground forces will soon be going through.

"Thread of Destiny to all units," Bior says as he steels himself for the trial to come. "Operation is a go. Begin planet side cleansing."


	3. Chapter 3

The Smell of Plasma in the Morning

"Incoming!"

The scratchy voice over the intercom causes Vernon to look up at the war-torn sky and see a burning pelican pummeling down to the earth. He could see the concentrated face, contorted with fear, of the pilot struggling futilely on the controls. The plane was doomed, and with it the life of the pilot and her passengers.

The howls of the indigenous population echo with sinister tenor across the battlefield.

Vernon looks around for any signs of his squad. He had dropped into the atmosphere inside his personal orbital pod, but was forced to separate from the landing zone due to heavy anti air fire.

Raising the sights of his battle rifle, Vernon scans the vast valley in front of him. The dirty brown dirt, mixed with the volatile violet goo, blanket the entire torn land as explosions and rockets dot the setting.

The projectiles thrown against his squad had caught Vernon completely in surprise. No one had expected any coordinated defense against them. Instead, as Vernon switches to his binoculars, they had only prepared the operation for an intelligence threat level above three. They were prepared for only independent resistance. Certainly, not large level coordination such as the one he witnessed,

A cold chill runs down Vernon's spine. Through his field glasses, he could witness an entire horde of dog like creatures' swarm all over a hastily created defensive positions. Limbs, arms, blood, muscles, fingers, every inch of a human body that weren't meant to be seen were tossed and strewn all over the bloody mud. His comrades never stood a chance.

"All units within this frequency," a voice desperately sounds out from Vernon's headset, "we are being overrun. Requesting immediate assistance from any nearby units. The division's FOB is here!"

A small screen projects in front of him as Vernon examines the frantic messages. He could make out the blue and green flashes flaring in the background, the soul searing screeches of the local inhabitants, and the distraught faces of those fighting for their very lives.

The screen blacks out just as a creature lunges into view.

Vernon tightly grasps his target locator. His squad had been the fleet liaisons for the rest of the vanguard forces. They were pathfinders. Their purpose was to clear any potential obstacles jarring the way for the main forces. Vernon's unit was tasked with marking any "nests" missed during the preliminary bombardment.

Vernon checks his battle pack. Blue colored plasma shine vibrantly against each other as the thin membrane of the grenades clink when they gently bump into each other. He checks his extra set of ammunitions. Neon green illuminance radiate through the cracks of the polyester leather.

Years as nomads in empty space had forced the humans and covenant to share technology and information without prejudice. It was almost a seamless bond of perfect unity. There was no way gunpowder could be produced in the vast emptiness, therefore, they had combined and adapted alien technologies with theirs. The result, a beautiful and frightening display of firepower unrivaled by any other previous weaponry before.

Vernon squares his equipment away and starts toward the next objective. There was a small "burrow" that had quickly sprung after the landings. It blocked an important passage that would allow armored divisions to rush across the entire continent once they landed.

Gritting his teeth, Vernon begins his journey as the methodic thumping of his boots collide with the mushy soil beneath. Each step brought a sickening _squish_ as a sickly sweet putrid aroma erupt from the rotten ground.

A hiss suddenly rings out.

Vernon instinctively spins around with his rifle at the ready. Bearing down on him was one of the common dog like creatures. It was laying on its side, trying to raise itself as saliva dripped from its snarling jaws. Half of the creature's body was twisted and lame. A casualty of the high velocity orbital bombardment no doubt.

Vernon raises his BR and squeezes off a burst. He turns around a moment after, not bothering to check the effect of his work.

The hollow thump of the bullets penetrating the body fill Vernon's eardrums. It was an uncomfortable sound that he could never get used to hearing. However, there was no yelping, no howling, no whimpering that characterized the sound of a dying animal. Vernon slowly turns around as his eyes widen with astonishment. Most of his rounds only penetrated the outer layer of the creatures' skin. He could still see the smoldering bullets smoking as they char the flesh.

Vernon shakes his head in disbelief. He wasn't concerned about this particular creature. It was paralyzed and so couldn't do any harm. However, if it could tank these many rounds, then the fleet was going to have a harder time cleaning this planet.

With the thunderous roars of artillery and the staccato vibrations of machine guns in the distance, Vernon empties the rest of his magazine into the creature and ends it's suffering.

The creature twitches as blood oozes from the multiple holes painted onto its face. His gruesome task finished, Vernon then proceeds to the highest point of his position. He could make out the vast valleys that were once green and beautiful. Now, only large hive like structures, with winged organisms surrounding each one, tower over the landscape. Burning wrecks of planes and transports plunges down from the grey filled sky as colorful tracers race past the fiery remains towards their destination. Mountains of dirt and debris rise from the point of impact reminding Vernon of the shellings he faced when he was an Insurgent.

Grabbing his target locator, Vernon then points his laser toward the direction of his target. His vantage point luckily gave him a clear view of his surroundings as he watches different variations of creatures dig from their burrows toward their enemies.

The electronic beeping from his device notified Vernon that the target has been confirmed. The echoes of _swishes_ and _shoos_ encompass Vernon as long streaks of shells, ablaze with plasma, follow and completely obliterate the numerous living structures dotting the narrow corridor.

Vernon watches with satisfaction as the entire area becomes obscured with smoke. There was no way anything could've survived that.

Isolated from the rest, Vernon had no way of knowing the general situation. The FOB was most likely gone, judging from the video messages, and units were most likely strung out and pocketed. Just like him.

Storing his target locator away, Vernon then checks the condition of his battle rifle before setting up a signal. This location seems like a perfect drop zone. As the red-light blinks on its tripod, Vernon retrieves his cigarette and inhales deeply. The nicotine course throughout his body, helping to relax his trembling hands. He sighs.

This was not going to be an easy operation.


	4. Chapter 4

Songs of the Unggoy

Mason waits wordlessly as the rest of his squad observe the Grunts with subdued silence. Despite the long years the races have all traveled together, the human-covenant war was still fresh on everyone's mind. It was an unspoken rule that every race left each other alone. Other than the higher brass, the ordinary soldier never fraternized with any of the alien races. It could be assumed the Unggoy felt the same with their traveling companions too.

"Check it out,"

Mason looks over where his partner, Roland, was signaling towards.

There, strolling down the dark metal loading bay, was the jumpmaster for the Grunts. Dressed in all black and white armor, the jumpmaster confidently makes his way into the individual combat pods specifically designed for the small Unggoy statures.

Mason watches curiously as the Grunt goes over its pre-landing ritual.

Every individual, no matter its race, gender, or species, have their own personal repertory practices they undergo before they find themselves in the inevitable conflict of life and death. This Unggoy was no different as Mason observes the Grunt storing away his gear, double checking the condition of his fuel rod cannon and plasma pistols, calibrating his drop pod one last time, and checking his weapons for the third time. It was the same for Mason and his unit of veterans. They had fought countless battles against the Covenant; first on Reach, then on New Mombasa. The brutality of the Covenant was already famous to them then. Mason secretly wondered if any of the Grunts in the vicinity of this ship had also been hardened from the prior wars.

Suddenly, a low moan vibrates from one of the combat pods.

Mason stares, bewildered, as an Unggoy, a minor from the looks of his lack of armor, hums a monotone note from the back of his throat.

"What are they doing?" Roland asks.

"They are 'singing'", Mason replies.

The other Unngoys join in. Mason notes the jumpmaster adding his own deep voice into the rising crescendo as the entire room fills with the single note of countless individuals.

"Singing?" Roland shouts over the noise. By now, different variations of the 'hum' protrude from the monotonous base as each Grunt add their own variation to the song. It was a frightfully beautiful melody from a race of creatures once thought of as "slaves".

"A war chant of sorts," Mason continues explaining, "it is their custom to say a final farewell before jumping into the jaws of death."

A high-pitched tone pierce through the air, startling Mason and the rest of his unit. The Grunt that started the chant had changed his tone and tempo and was now passionately convulsing with the rhythm of the intonation. His comrades join in too, filling the entire bay with their resonating war cry.

"What are they saying?"

Mason looks solemnly at the procession.

"To our deaths we proudly go," he begins.

The songs grow louder. Mason could make out the other Unngoys in the neighboring bay's adding their own voices into the song.

"We know no fear as our lives are already gone."

Roland wordlessly gapes at the scene. The translation Mason deliberately mutters seem to accent the deafening theme echoing the halls.

"For the honor that will be our forgotten names… We carry in our hearts the pride of the Disdain."

The red-light flashes on, illuminating Mason's face with crimson colors. It seemed almost ironic considering the circumstances.

The jumpmaster shrieks an incompressible order and the doors to their personal pods close shut.

The chant die down one by one until a lone voice was all that was left. The first Unngoy that started the hymn.

"You have to admit," Roland comments, "they are some ardent troopers."

"No," Mason rebukes.

The song finishes with a hush.

"They are Unngoy."

The light turns green and the jumpmaster bellows his final ear-piercing scream just as the bomb bay doors open. The metal clamps holding the drop pods in place release as the atmospheric winds rushing into the hanger slap against Mason's face, stinging his cheeks with its icy cold grip.

Almost in unison, the drop pods descend in pairs. Two by two every half a second as the black painted metal husks plummet toward the planet's surface.

"All right men," Mason yells, "check your gear, write your letters, and kiss your mothers goodbye. We're saddling in."

The men, still dazed by the awesome performance the Grunts gave them, rise from their relaxed positions as the second rotation of drop pods are wedge into place.

Mason looks at his personalized carrier. His girlfriend had stenciled their names onto the pod four years ago when they started their journey. The years had shown their age on the mark when he woke from cryo, a bitter reminder of how helpless they really were in the grand scheme of things.

Brushing his fingers over the sanded down paint, Mason silently swears to himself. Like the Unggoy that knew full well the suicidal task given to them, Mason was going to fight with all he has in the coming battle. His life meant nothing compared to the loved ones of his and his men that were still sleeping inanimately on the civilian ships.

Mason looks into the cockpit.

This was the instrument that would carry him to his struggle. Like a winged chariot bringing a warrior to the battlefield. Mason relishes the thought.

Whatever happens, Mason could always believe that his actions, no matter how insignificant, will matter. They will not lose. They _cannot_ lose. And this sentiment was felt from every person to every lowest lifeform in the fleet.

They were finally home.


End file.
